Am I really still this naive? After living abroad for seven years now, it should be more obvious to me. But it´s like playing a game of BS and I keep ending up with the stack of cards. Same game and same mistakes in different contexts.
I give myself the excuse that I grew up in the United States among educators and officials who genuinely had my best interests as a child in mind. In my small town, everyone either knew the officials or were related to them. And probably because of my personality, trust came so easily to me. To me, words meant what they said and could take it at face value.
Of course there is corruption in the US government and often among officials and police. Some stories come out and some never do. But I still trust the police enough that if I witness child abuse in the US, I would report it to the police. If I saw men ganging up against a woman, I would call the police without expecting him to join the horrific event. When I leave a bank, I feel more secure when a guard is there rather than less secure. And if I get pulled over while driving, I ask what I did not wrong rather than asking how much money the officer wants. I still trust the police to keep me safer and I remember my friends joining the police force and I take pride as they have hearts to make the place a better place.
Obviously this is not the case around the world. And now after years of experience of officials playing dirty or pocketing money, I ran right into it again. As our troop of friends waited at the train station, ready to wish us off, the passport check line decreased and Misa and I approached. In our few international travels together, we have encountered many troubles as Misa passes through countries on his Mexican passport. All the while, Camilo and I claim our American status and walk through to pour snacks on benches while awaiting Misa on the other side. This time, we pushed Misa ahead of us, knowing if he gets stamped, then we can all rest easily.
He does get his stamp. As does Camilo. And then the line slows down with my passport. I pull out my expired passport hoping they can see the stamps and make sense of my visa and there is no advancement. They talk about my visa, then they don´t. They talk to other customers. Foreigners complain about the 20 baht fee to use immigration services which is posted nowhere. A European woman in her holy clothes angrily slams down her $200 backpack because my line is stuck. My friends wonder what is keeping me. Camilo is tired and is being carried by his pops.
Finally the female official in the left window tells me I have overstayed my visa. It didn´t make sense, I never felt I overstayed. I was never asked to leave, no subtle warnings like those from a tired mother whisking people from her home. Instead, there were tears at our departure and good-bye exchanges over and over to the same people.
She shoved my passport forward with my visa and showed me the date written in the expiration line: 19 November 2024. It was true, I wasn´t even supposed to be here and the Lao people left me one simple message hidden among the other documents. I had been illegally living in this communist country for 27 days.
I was invited inside the office at the let down of my friends waiting to see me off and the joy of the angry backpacker. With a glance to my overly large stomach, a new officer passed me a swivel desk chair. This coronel had my passports in his hands and didn´t speak any English, but I understood his Lao when he told me I had overstayed my visa and would need to pay. I checked again and again the two other passports housed in my fanny pack just below my baby bump. Camilo´s: 19 May 2025. Misa´s: 19 May 2025. How did I end up with a six month permission rather than a year?! It was my fault for not double checking the flawed work of others, yet I felt cheated at the same time.
The colonel decided to set my fee at $10 per day. He wasn´t apt at multiplication or conversion skills and it took a while for him to convince me of the total. Kip? Baht? No, $270 is what my overstay would cost me. I stepped out of the office to pull out cash from Misa. Upon my return, the colonel stood and began searching through the storage cabinet against the white wall. Another officer arrived at the scene, sent because of his English. With the crunch time of the approaching train, I wasn´t interested in waiting for a new officer to understand what was happening, but he did. He sat and repeated to me in English what I already knew. 27 days over, $270. He explained that they had no receipt paper, so the colonel would write up a note of payment. Although unprofessional, I didn´t think too much of it. Receipts weren´t common to receive here in Laos.
The colonel sat and began writing a note in Lao. When it came time to write my English name, he was slow and began to complain to his partner that his eyes were hurting. Copying the shapes was a painful task. He filled the whole page and my three word name was the only part written in English. Yet, it was one of the few instances of which I could actually read the entire letter.
The colonel then dictated the note to me. The English speaker asked throughout if I understood and I said yes. I was asked to sign my name for official documentation. Then my visa was revoked and the colonel went to stamp my passport. The train had already arrived and the English speaking official began to ask where I live in America. I stated we lived in Mexico. He asked if the state of Mexico is close to California and explained he only knew what he saw on the news. Yes, Mexico is close to California. I shook my head, took my passport and headed for the door. I had accomplished my duty to right my wrong. If it weren´t for our friends on the other side of this wall, I would have no desire to return to this place.
I stepped out of the office and Misa greeted me, telling me to not be upset, I didn´t have time to negotiate the price today.
What??
He mentioned that they saw me with my white skin and family and suitcases and knew they could set any price.
And then I knew he was right. I had done wrong, but what I went through was a farse. The time stamp on my visa was real, but the $10 a day price was thrown into the middle of the card game unquestioned. How many beers did I just buy for these officers? With no official receipt and the note kept in the colonel´s hands, I knew the money I placed on the table through restrained tears would be swept into their pockets.
We passed over to the train waiting area where our local boss asked how much I paid and where the receipt was. He knew before I told him there was none. He knew where the money was going, we all knew. My Lao friends, Latino friends, my husband. That´s how it works. Yet, I remain naive, thinking they will come out and say ¨I´m lying,¨ in the middle of the game. But they don´t say it, you just know it. If you grow up in Laos, you expect it always. It is part of the unspoken ways of being. Turns out I ended up paying the government´s set rate and thankfully wasn´t charged higher. Negotiation with these officials probably wouldn´t have left me in a better position in this case, but it still leaves one to wonder how many will know about my hand written receipt.
The doors of the train opened before our conversation came to an end and our friends aided us in pushing our seven suitcases on this first part of our move back home. We said a true good-bye in a rush and boarded the train wondering what game would be played on the Thai side of the river.
Leave a Reply